Seattle 29, or Another Poem from the new book

Bakery #6

In exchange for the
burnt loaves of sourdough,
Gabe and I offer to stack
the 4 cords before it rains.
It's my birthday.
There is oak dust up my nose,
bluegrass coming through the window.

Bakery #2

Matthew slips the week's
poem into each paper bag.
It is not very good.
He writes too much like a baker
who always wanted to sing jazz
or never have children.
Matthew's bread tastes like
river rocks, calluses, and sunshine.

Bakery #328

Customers shuffle in
from twenty below, &
watch the snow evaporate
from their boots.
Linda and Matthew are panting.
They take breaks by the door,
kiss by the woodpile.
New customers leave
with flour handprints
on their shoulder blades.
It's Friday.